


Friends forever

by orphan_account



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Catcher in the Rye - Freeform, Coffee, Depression, Gen, Hatred, Intelligence - Freeform, Panick Attack, Reading, Suicide mention, and rambly, black hat is great, black hat just thinks he's neat you know, but I've fallen in love with the characters, but not a paperhat fic, hopefully in characters, just clearing that up, not angst, not gonna lie this fanfic is complete garbage, not of the characters!, paperhat mention, self harm [mentioned], some of it's almost funny, very pedantic, warning for pedantic-y ness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 18:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16560944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Small stories about the life of our favorite organization





	Friends forever

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of self harm, depressing things, catcher in the rye, and slight fluffiness.

He stood in front of the coffee machine in the early morning. Inky strands coming out of his back and swaying lightly in the golden sunlight. Flug watched, tired, as the eldritch stood serenely. The two half asleep villains painted an odd sight together. Not quite in their right mind, one sipping coffee and the other not even awake enough to realise it had already been made. Black Hat kept waiting, standing, taking up too much space in the already big room as the scientist kept his mouth shut to see how long it would last. The entire room was silent save for the sound of birds and the warmth of the sun.   
“Flug,” Said the demon, voice unusually devoid of anger, “Why is this taking so long?”  
“Because the coffee is already made, sir.”  
“You sadistic bastard. I knew I shouldn’t have hired you.”

…

The skin wasn’t soft, like he’d read it would be. It was dry and almost scaly. His lips weren’t soft either, he noted as he ran a finger over them. Dry and chapped, rough all over. Black Hat wished the human was nicer to the touch, but he wasn’t. Black Hat wished the human was notably magnificent, but he wasn’t. There was absolutely nothing the demon could do to justify his scientist’s abnormality. For all intents and purposes, Dr. Flug was completely normal. But, as he held the unconscious genius in his arms, the eldritch knew something in him warranted a closer look. 

….

There was one thing Flug knew. His boss was irrevocably in love with his own machiavellianism. It seems Black Hat was under the dark tetrad spell. Narcissism, machiavellianism, psychopathy. Not that the doctor had much to talk about, or anyone in the house for that matter. It wasn’t as if the winds of hypocrisy could change anyone, especially when that persons vice makes them unable to change. Do the rules of psychology even apply here? Flug wasn’t even sure if psychology was a valid form of science in the first place.   
He couldn’t be mean to his poor oppressor. He couldn’t be mean to an eldritch abomination. No matter how many bruises he had. 

…

It was too goddamn loud. Voices everywhere, painfully obvious to him but unable to decipher. Comprehension was above him. The walls were everywhere. It was a feeling bad enough to rival the times he’s spent laying on the floor in the throes of a panic attack. It was worse than crumbs underneath fingernails, worse than too hot weather and being around children. Flashbacks. So the genius was defeated by a crowd of people. Villains all have weaknesses, right? 

….  
PANIC ATTACK

 

He laid on the floor clutching his shirt. The darn thing couldn’t stretch enough to cover his entire miserable body. His face was warm and he couldn’t see anything out of his now useless goggles. Everything was wet. He wasn’t alive. He couldn’t be. He had to be dead. Death becomes him! It’s a good look on anyone- and he knows he deserves it more than them. He deserves to be the experiment body underneath the cold sheet without mourners. Stripped completely naked and covered in his own blood. Organs are not clothes. He doesn’t deserve the small dignity they provide. He had to be dead because that’s what he deserves.  
“Flug?” He heard voices looking for him. But still he cried, dragging his miserable, shaking body underneath a table.   
“Flug?” They called again, plane crash words disembodied voices echoing like gym children having fun more fun than he can. Stupid stupid voices stupid reactions stupid stupid. He hates everyone he’s dead.   
He stilled himself briefly, trying not to give himself away as footsteps echoed over the carpet too loudly to be human. The lizard hybrid kept trying to find him. He applauded her efforts, he really did. But he couldn’t let anyone see him right now. He couldn’t let himself be comforted. He didn’t deserve the care. He wasn’t a part of society and didn’t deserve its perks. 

….

 

He burst into my room talking about microbes. About how they were smarter than humans and my species’ “god complex” will eventually “be our downfall”. I said that it was too LATE for him to keep me up ranting about cosmic irony. He glared. I fell silent. 

….

“no, no really, think about it! Your pathetic species is leaking its secrets of life to those who aim to destroy you! I should have been in the microbe business…”  
“Sir, I really don’t think that-“  
“SILENCE. In the ice… laying dormant…. something beyond your wildest nightmares. More terrifying than… well, not ME but… humans comprehension is so limited they don’t even know how how terrifying it is! These viruses… are so evil they will OBLITERATE humanity…. and I will LAUGH….” Black Hat smiled evilly, rubbing his hands together like he put on too much hand sanitizer.   
“But sir, won’t you be bored then? Microbes aren’t sentient. How will you induce your machiavellianistic reign of terror? How will you get money?” Flug asked.   
“... that is true. BUT they could become sentient… yes… I will make them so. And so will YOU! You can make an antidote, I’ll provide the resources. You can survive and… and I’ll sell it to the highest bidders! These rich people will stay alive for so long, and I can torture them endlessly….”  
“Sir, you’re drunk.”  
“Don’t tell me I’m drunk! I am perfectly fine and sober! And furthermore-“  
Flug sighed as he looked over his bosses unconscious body. What fine timing. Right after he brought it up and everything. He’ll be a bitch to move, he thought. 

…

“Five, you beautiful mess of stardust… Flug grumbled under his breath. Demencia looked at the scientist.   
“Where’s that stupid bear gone to now?” She asked.   
“He’s isn’t stupid! He’s my baby…” he replied dreamily. Demencia rolled her eyes.   
“He’s seven feet tall.”  
“Six at the most!”  
“dumb. It’s a dumb bear. Stupid.”  
“No!”  
“Yes. He is. And I can prove it with….” She whispered the last bit, leaning in closer to Flug. He leaned in too, stupidly. “SCIENCE!” she yelled suddenly. Flug fell back in his chair. Demencia started laughing loudly. Flug glared from the ground.  
…  
Flug.

I typed so fast I didn’t even register my fingers moving. I focused on the words with more fervor than I gave to anything else. It was as if my existence was justified by the way my fingers moved over the keys. I could feel all the years of wrongdoing and pure awfulness slip through my wretched fingers, running through my undeserving veins and into the words that showed up on the screen. Everything was clearer than it had ever been, and I didn’t register anything around me. The best kind of lucidity was the fog that settled over my eyes and perched itself into my very bones. Calcium turning to iron, turning to metal and chicken-wire. Cold blue liquid rushed through my veins at a texture much thinner than any blood that’s ever come out of me. I focused on the words. I put everything I had into them until my soul wasn’t there anymore. Until I was drained and sad, like I’d come from a party where nobody liked me. Like I was alienated from my very own words. 

And I was. They took my script and turned it into something that fit their agenda. They changed me until I wasn't alive anymore. Their rewrited put bruises on my skin. They inked out their corrections not on the paper but onto me as well, I swear. I wasn’t a writer anymore. I was dead and my sensitivity put me there.  
…

I put down the book hesitantly. The last page was over, but part of me wanted to turn the pages back around and continue reading. Surely there was something I missed? Something in the pages that told me more about the characters. The setting. The motivations, anything. More of that lovely prose that spoke more to me than any person I’d come in contact with. Surely there was something different in the story my second time around.  
But I didn’t. I put down the book and forced myself out of the reverie I’d put myself under while spellbound by the story. Would the main character ever find happiness? Was that a suicide attempt the moment he got home? I wanted more. I wanted to know who found the body. Who called the ambulance, who drove his convulsing body to the emergency room and stood outside while anxiously awaiting news of his life or lack thereof? I wanted to know-if not anything else-if there was anybody that cared enough for him to do at least that. At least call someone to let them know you have an almost corpse in your house. Someone to tell about the time you found your almost dead son alone with a bottle of pills. A waterlogged nose. Anything. I wanted answers, but got nothing. 

I did not turn the book to the start. I stared at the back cover because the front was full of too much possibility. I understood why it was a classic, I just hated how much I could relate to it.


End file.
